The Knight Holds a Banquet (1)
An underdog's revolt, in the truest sense—one no one had seen coming.
Rare indeed was the War Game between mages and warriors that ended so swiftly, and so absurdly. Rarer still was a match the warriors simply overwhelmed.
And yet not a soul dared doubt their victory.
Small wonder.
They're completely spent.
Hard to tell who won and who lost.
Set against mages who looked perfectly unharmed, the warriors had collapsed in utter exhaustion, every one of them pale to the point of bloodlessness. It was proof they had poured out everything they had, and evidence of just how much spirit they had spent upon the fight. Who had been more desperate, and who had truly done their utmost—that was the difference that decided the match. And so the spectators spent their applause without stint on those who had given their all.
Click-click-click-click!
Some were already taking photographs. No one doubted those pictures would claim the front page of tomorrow morning's paper. The comeback had been that entertaining.
"The notion is to detonate one's strength?"
"Hmm. Is it not rather a concentration of momentum? It may even belong to the sort that amplifies potential."
"An unusual Fighting Art. Amusing. Did that knight teach it? This is rather—ah, no. Are the flaws the greater part...?"
Nobles with a discerning eye took an interest in a new method that was, at its root, different from the Fighting Art, yet whose instantaneous explosive force and power were worthy of acknowledgment. Interest, however, was all they gave. They did not bare their greed.
As the mages had noticed, the method seemed crowded with fatal shortcomings. A time limit was one thing; it was also a technique that put a strain upon the body. Methods of that kind were not aristocratic. A new technique was certainly interesting, but they did not judge it great enough to replace the Fighting Art—and above all, it lacked dignity.
Of course, those who truly had eyes for value did not spare their admiration, or their shock.
"—A great many fellows go about with eyes hung on as mere ornaments. Wouldn't you say, Rak?"
"They are the sort who believe that what they possess is the highest there is. And yet those words are not entirely mistaken. To those who have learned the higher arts, a 'technique' of that kind holds little charm. ...Even so."
"Even so?"
"Should there be one who perfects that technique, he would surely be a threat. Enough that no knight would dare disregard him."
"Ho. I expected a narrow judgment from you. How unexpected."
"M-my lord..."
A knight of a certain ducal house, who had grasped in a breath the value of what that force possessed, and the lord who teased him for it.
The Duke. Blake Vivian de Galahad stroked his chin, his gaze bright with interest.
"That young man remains a pleasure merely to watch. Not only is his skill fine—he has a talent for teaching as well? Amusing."
"He is not a man worth placing value upon."
"And yet you go on burning to cross blades with a fellow like that? You have been so restless I nearly thought you had fallen in love."
"!!?"
"Ha ha!"
Duke Blake laughed, open and hearty.
The boy was the closest thing he had to a disciple. Serious and cold in all things, with no flavor to tease—until he became entangled with that knight, and began at last to smell like a person. A wooden puppet, one might say, finally starting to act the part of a man. True, the more human he became, the longer his training ran, and the more time his sparring partners spent on the verge of tears. That, however, was no affair of Duke Blake's.
"I find myself coveting him. Were he not my niece's man, I would have taken him for my own."
"......"
"And yet, for the sake of your growth, it may profit us more to leave him an enemy. He will be no small stimulus."
"Th-that is not it. What could a lowborn wretch like that possibly—"
"Tsk, tsk. So unwilling to be honest."
"......"
Knights, at any rate, were a problem—their pride and their hunger for a worthy fight running far too hot.
"...Even so, better a high fighting spirit than those sly cat bastards."
But the amusement lasted only a moment.
His gaze cooled to ice.
They were nothing but an irritant.
Was it the demonic nature of the Magic Sword? Merely having the lions nearby set his killing intent to boiling. And yet it was not the Magic Sword alone. Galahad and Lionel had already crossed a river from which there was no returning.
Mortal enemies, in all but name.
Men who had to be removed.
Even so.
"If you but give the order, even now, I will move the knight order."
"Enough. To lose the lot of you over the North's cats would be the greater loss."
"My lord! We will not lose!"
"You would not lose. There would only be sacrifice."
"Nnngh—!"
He could not swear he would erase them for certain, and so, for now, he had to endure.
Rak de Duron, knight of the Duke, could not bring himself to deny the words of the lord he served. Just as those words said, the enemy's skill was not beneath their own. He was not so lacking that he failed to sense it.
"Let us stand. It has been some time. I ought to go and have a word with my niece."
"...You will not see the young lady?"
He faltered.
At those words, for the first time—
"......That child seems to dislike meeting me."
His face darkened.
"Mm."
"...Haa."
Duke Blake, who had never once lost the dignity of a lofty lord, let out a long sigh. He wished to grow close, and yet she did entirely as she pleased, her moods as unpredictable as weather in the sky—a fairy of a foster daughter. Recalling her drew the sigh out of him.
"Hm. Sir, am I so disagreeable? Every time the child sees me, she knits her brow. I had some confidence in this face of mine, and yet... have I grown old?"
"......"
At this particular juncture he was at a loss for anything he might say, and so he kept silent.
There was much he wanted to say, but Rak spared his words. Instead he turned his gaze to their surroundings. Maidens boasting flower-fresh beauty were stealing glances at his lord and coloring to the ears, and truly, this was—
My lord, if you say such things where others can hear, they will stone you.
The men, especially.
Rak could not dare utter so irreverent a remark to the lord he revered. He merely bowed his head in silence.
Upon the students—no, upon the fighters who had contested a splendid match—encouragement and congratulatory applause poured without end.
"Congratulations on the victory."
"You were splendid."
"We were proud of you, Lady Fault."
This victory was not the sword faculty's. It was a result wrought by their effort alone. The merit, therefore, belonged to them alone, and no one stinted the victors their support.
For this moment, a warmth that leapt across station was on display, and the young ladies pressed bouquets into their arms.
Bouquets from pretty noble ladies. They received them, moved to the point of trembling.
"T-to receive something like this..."
"Please, take them. You have more than earned the right."
"Haha..."
"...You were wonderful."
"!!"
The time a man needs to fall in love is three-tenths of a second. Sprout No. 5 had already begun thinking up the child's name.
But he was not the only one caught in such misunderstanding and flutter. All of them were.
Even outside the sword faculty, there were young ladies offering flowers. When would they ever have an experience like this? There could be no greater luxury.
Regrettably, the popularity pouring over them lasted only an instant. The one who received the most flowers—and whom the noble young ladies watched most closely of all—was a certain girl.
"L-Lady Fault, I-I'll be cheering for you from now on."
"M-might you accept my handkerchief?"
"...You were so magnificent at the end."
"Th-thank you."
A valiant woman warrior. The heroine of the reversal. Today's best player.
All of it pointed to Levi Fault.
I-I didn't really do that much.
In truth she had only worked hard, the same as the others, and had merely been lucky enough to land the final blow. From where she stood, it sat uncomfortably. But that was not what mattered to the spectators.
She was incredible. Truly.
It was moving.
The courage shown by so slight a body. Judgment, charismatic as a conductor before an orchestra, displayed with her whole self. Even the way she had run on in silence to the very end, giving everything she had, and swung her rapier.
Levi Fault was already more than enough to become what women longed to be. In any age, a woman who is enterprising and strong becomes an object of yearning.
And above all, she was a noble.
That mattered.
A noble young lady who had not set down her embroidery, and had taken up the sword.
She might become a lady knight.
The office of lady knight. A road harder to enter than the eye of a needle. The qualification to walk that difficult path was granted only to noble young ladies, and one had to prove that even in a woman's body she could stand fully against other knights.
And today, Levi Fault had shown the potential to become one.
Considering that the last appointment of a lady knight had been forty years ago, the girl's value was shooting sky-high. Which meant they were not all approaching out of goodwill alone.
But for now—
"Thank you..."
Was it not better to savor this joy?
...Of course, not everyone was offering congratulations.
"This cannot be! Th-that's right! The flag has to be taken! Where in the world does breaking it count as a victory!"
"How ugly, slave."
"I-I tell you it is not so! We did not lose...!"
There was one who could not admit defeat—no, who could not accept reality.
Odwal Bernard. The name of a loser who had shrieked and raged until a War Game was granted, only to be defeated in turn. He meant to insist they summon a lawyer on the spot. He absolutely would not acknowledge the loss—
"—No. The victors of this game are the warriors. Those charged with guarding the king failed to guard him, and the king's life was taken. How, then, could they be anything but the defeated?"
"!!"
For an instant Odwal shook from head to foot, like a man whose breath had stopped.
Stiff-necked though he was, a supreme predator he dared not oppose had appeared before his eyes.
The crown princess—the kingdom's next heir—fixed him with a cold glare.
"If you carry on so unreasonably because you cannot trust the judgment I have rendered, say so now. I shall hear you."
"......"
"Go on."
"...N-no. I will acknowledge the defeat."
With what face would he dare resist any further?
Before the princess's pressure, Odwal could only tremble and yield, and he submitted to the result.
"Hmph."
With one look steeped in contempt, the princess commended the students.
"Splendidly done."
—Thud, thump!
Before anyone knew it, all of them had fallen to their knees. In the face of Isis's appearance, heads bowed of their own accord.
She looked the students over, satisfied.
"That the kingdom held so many talents—I am moved."
...Even the sound of breathing seemed, for a moment, to vanish.
"I have seen roses beyond counting. Beautiful, and beautiful again. Yet a rose that bloomed in the wild field stirred a different wonder in me. Beautiful, and radiant—and so were you."
The longer her voice went on, the sweeter it became, until it felt as though one's very mind were melting. Would even a soprano of heaven be so sweet?
At some moment, the people wept. Without regard for station.
"I-it is the glory of my house."
"Hic..."
"Princess, I revere you."
Not some strange magic, nor brainwashing, but a phenomenon born where inborn charisma and charm met. In a sense, more frightening than brainwashing. For it was merely the charm and charisma of a single person, exercising an influence of this magnitude.
"I am in a fine mood today. In that spirit, I shall open a banquet. You are its protagonists. See that you attend."
—Thuu-thump!!
Whose words would they defy? Sudden though the banquet was, they would have to attend without condition. They could never commit such irreverence...!!
"—Count me out. I've got other things to do."
"......You ill-bred wretch."
Thwack!
The princess's fan breathed fire.
He was a peerless master of the (entirely unintentional) child-prodigy arts, the sort who could flick aside a charm stronger than brainwashing as if it were nothing.